And then—her voice.
"Yoouu..."
It was not sharp. It was not commanding. It was gentle—terribly, achingly gentle.
He stiffened. The word carried warmth like a balm pressed against fresh burns, and he hated it.
Hated how it slid beneath his armor, past the rage, past the carefully layered scorn, and threatened to remind him that he was still human enough to be touched.
She stood there in her veil and gown, white hair cascading like a fall of starlight. Crystal-blue eyes searched his face, and for a moment he almost turned away before she could see too much.
But she stepped closer. Her hand—slender, pale, trembling with the force of compassion—rose and touched his arm.
"You should not be alone in this state," she whispered. "You're hurt. Please… let me help."
Her kindness struck harder than Lilith's torment. He did not want her pity. He did not want her to carve a path toward him, to stitch herself into his story.
